Thursday, July 24, 2014

INTERVIEW: Tinnean

Today we're talking with one of my favorite people, the lovely Tinnean! She returns to us to talk about her book "If You're Going Through Hell, Keep Going" and of course, rocking her hat.Hi Tinnean!
Welcome back to the insanity that is
my Hat Party. Please don your best hat and let’s get this party started!

Thank you so much for having me back, Raine! And as you
can see, I have a brand new hat! A few weeks ago, my husband and I went up to
the Edison Mall in Fort Myers, and we found a little kiosk where you could buy
hats and have whatever you like embroidered on them. I had the brilliant idea
of making a Huntingdon Troubleshooter cap. ;-)

If you could have
your ideal secret writing lair, what would it look like?

Remember the treehouse from Disney’s The Swiss Family Robinson? This is what I would love. I’d climb up
the ladder to a space that would be my study. It would be sheltered by leaves
and branches (although there would also be a switch I could throw so a clear
enclosure would descend and protect me from the rain.) and lovely tropic
breezes would keep me cool. There would be a hammock for when I needed to
collect my thoughts, and a desk with lots of secret compartments (just because),
and while I’d love a quill pen, I think I’ll stick with a computer. And since
this is the twenty-first century and not the nineteenth, I’ll have high speed
internet access, a microwave to nuke popcorn, and a fridge with cans of A&W
Root Beer.

Tell me one of
your earliest writing memories.

The earliest one is in my bio, about the epic poem, but
let me give you one that’s a little bit later. My fifth grade teacher wanted us
to write a paragraph using adjectives. For some reason, I couldn’t grasp what
she wanted, and I kept handing in the exact same thing time after time. I was
frustrated and she was ticked off (not the most patient of women). Finally, she
gave us another writing assignment, and she was surprised at how right I got
it. Now, while I can remember the first paragraph was about snow, I have no
clue what the other one was.

What is your
favorite literary quote?

This is very easy. A few years ago, I came across something
by Ernest Hemingway, and that’s actually become my signature line: Once writing has become your major vice and
greatest pleasure, only death can stop it. And I sincerely believe this.

You have 200
(MORE!) words—Make. Me. Swoon. (PLEASE!)

I opened the locks of
the door in the correct sequence. No sooner was I in my condo and the door
closed and secured behind me than I shed my overcoat, toed off my shoes, and
began stripping off my clothes, leaving them in a trail behind me as I headed
for my bedroom, until all I had on were my trousers.

And if Quinn had been
yanking my chain… if he wasn’t naked as he’d promised… damn, I was going to be
disappointed.

I wasn’t. He was lying
on the white faux fur rug—it had to be faux, since we got semen on it at least
once a week and it needed to be washable—staring into the flames that danced in
the fireplace.

“Hey, babe.” I dropped
trou and didn’t give him the opportunity to rise, just knelt beside him, cupped
his face in my hands, and raised it for a kiss.

“Mark!” he murmured
against my lips. “We need to—”

“Fuck? You better
believe it. I’ve had the shittiest morning, and I need you to take that taste
from my mouth.”

“It will be my
pleasure.” He held up a tube of Wet but wouldn’t let me take it.

“Quinn?”

“Since it’s been one of
those days for you, I think perhaps you need to let me take control.”

“You do, huh?”

“If you don’t object?”

“Why would I do a stupid
thing like that? How do you want me? Front? Back?”

“On your back, please.”
He was always so polite. “I want to see your eyes as I slide into you.”

I shivered. God, he knew
exactly what to say to set me on fire.

“Okay.” My voice was
hoarse in my own ears. It had turned out Quinn enjoyed bottoming, but whenever
he asked the same from me, he got it with no objection.

“I love your package,”
he murmured as he warmed some lube on his fingers. His eyes were on my cock and
balls, and he leaned forward and closed his lips over the head. While he sucked
gently at the tip, probing the slit with his tongue, he ran his slicked finger
past my balls and circled my hole a few times before sliding it in, and he
began to loosen me.

Jesus, he drove me
crazy!

“I…” I swallowed. I’d
never enjoyed being touched in that manner by anyone other than Quinn. “I was
thinking the same thing earlier.”

“Really? You think of me
when you’re at work?”

“Are you fucking—” I
yelped as he found my prostate and gave it a good rub.

“Not yet, Mark, but
soon.” He rose up and kissed me, tasting a little of me, a little of the Life
Savers he enjoyed. I’d gotten the habit from him, and I’d sucked on a
Wint-O-Green on the drive home. He slid another finger in to join the first,
and I could feel a drop of precome beading at the tip of my cock.

“Better make that real
soon.”

“All right.” He took a
condom from where he must have placed it on the hearth, tore open the foil
wrapper, and rolled it on. “Slick me up, babe.”

I poured some Wet into
my palm and ran it over Quinn’s cock. He hissed and closed his eyes.

“Quinn?”

“It’s been such a
while….”

“No it hasn’t. We did it
just….” Oh, he meant since he’d had me. I banged my head back against the
hardwood floor. Fortunately, the rug cushioned it. “Dammit, Quinn, you should
have said something sooner.”

“I’m saying something
now. Will you shut up so we can get on with it?”

“Sorry. Proceed.”

“Proceeding.” His cock
nudged my hole, and then he sank in, and we both sighed. “Nice?”

“Fucking A.”

He stopped moving,
leaned his forehead against mine, and laughed, his breath warm in my face.

“Jesus, Quinn! Move!”

He braced his hands
beside my shoulders, looked into my eyes, and began a gentle rocking motion I
knew was going to last for a long time. “Yes?”

“Yeah!”

You’ve been
stabbed, shot, AND bludgeoned! (WOW, enemies, much?) As you’re dying, what one
object do you possess that is so special to you that you wouldn’t write the
killer’s name on it?

To tell you the truth, I’ve drawn a total blank. Maybe my
kids’ baby books? Although they’re way up on top of the computer armoire, so I
have no idea how I’d get to them. What I would do is write the name on my palm
and just hope I didn’t sweat enough that it smeared.

Be totally honest,
what’s the most difficult part of being a writer?

Honestly? The most difficult part for me is hitting the
“send” key to submit it. I’m sending my baby out into the world, and all I can
do is hope it will be received well and treated kindly.

Tell me about a
time in your life when you were changed.

I’m not sure if this is what you had in mind, but back in
’99, I was writing het fanfic. My friend Silk informed me about this new genre
she’d found, and that was my introduction to m/m. I was fascinated by it and
found it so much hotter than m/f. That was pretty much the last time I wrote
about het couples although a couple of years ago, I started working on Portia
Mann’s story. And then earlier this year, imagine my surprise when Mark Vincent
began reminiscing about the two weeks he’d spent with Femme. But I consider
those a fluke. My heart is with m/m.

A drunken relative
has just insulted M/M rom up one side and down the other. Plus they spilled
their drink on you in the process. What is your most articulate response?

Dude. Seriously? You’re a freaking idiot. (sorry, I can’t
get articulate when I lose my temper.)

Complete this
sentence: if I weren’t a writer, I would ______.

Have no life? Be seriously depressed? *cough* I’ve always
been an avid reader, and more than anything, I wanted to join the ranks of the authors
who gave me such pleasure. That I’ve been published is a dream come true, and I
can’t see myself doing anything else.

You’ve just
inherited a dachshund farm. What do you do now?

Okay, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I would have the
AKC come in to make sure everything was top notch. I’d update all the housing,
simply because if I inherited the farm, I’m assuming I inherited a lot of money,
and I want the pups to have the best. I’d have concierge vet service (like
Royal Pains, but for dachshunds). And then… and then…. I’d laugh at everyone,
because I had these amazing dogs and they didn’t.

Raine says: I adore you, Tinnean. Your farm is AMAZING!

~ ~ ~

Mark Vincent and Quinton
Mann have finally kind of, sort of, exchanged promises. Mark has returned from
an assignment on the West Coast, and he’s looking forward to spending some
quality time with his lover. After all, it’s the St. Patrick’s Day weekend. What
could be better than a little beer, a little corned beef on rye, and Quinn in
his bed?

However, on Monday it’s
back to the grind—this time to an almost empty department: Matheson is away on
assignment and Ms. Parker, Mark’s secretary, is taking sick time, something she
never does. But these aren’t the only signs of something unusual, well, more
unusual than normal, going on. Gradually, Mark uncovers a series of events
going back to the previous spring and involving not only his senior special
agent but Theo Bascopolis, a former rent boy who is Mark’s friend.

While Mark unravels the
threads of the Gordian knot the WBIS has become, he realizes how deep his
feelings for Quinn have grown. But can a spy like Mark ever hope to be “the
one” for a spook like Quinn?

Excerpt:

Because it was the St. Patrick’s Day weekend, a
local movie house was showing The Quiet
Man, so we went to see it in the afternoon, and that evening, I took Quinn
to the Dungarvan, a little Irish pub on H Street. We wore casual
clothes—Vincent casual, which meant jeans, Doc Martens, fisherman knit
sweaters, and bomber jackets. And of course we carried our clutch pieces.

The Dungarvan was dark and rustic, with lots of
wooden beams, sawdust on the floor, and tables and chairs as opposed to booths.
We had corned beef on rye with a side of potato chips, washed down with Irish
Red Ale, and we listened to the band sing about Irish rovers and colonial boys,
flutes and wakes and “Brennan on the Moor.”

I took it easy on the ale, since I’d be driving, but
Quinn really liked the taste of it. That kind of surprised me, since he usually
preferred seasonal beers like Spring Bock, which he got from a Virginia
brewery. But what the hell? I figured he might as well enjoy himself.

By the time we left, just before one, I got another
surprise: Quinn was feeling no pain. The ale seemed to have gone right to his
head.

I had an arm around his waist, trying to keep him
from falling on his ass. “You’d better hope no one decides to jump the fags,” I
groused under my breath.

In spite of the fact he’d been humming “The Seven
Drunken Nights,” he must have heard me. “There are fags around here?” He looked
around as if searching for them.

“Jesus, Quinn.”

He leaned close and kissed my cheek.

“How drunk are you?”

“I am not drunk,” he said, with drunken dignity.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“And anyway, that’s what you get for filling me with
beer.”

“Are you going to have a hangover tomorrow?”

“I don’t think so.”

Fortunately, by that point we’d reached my car, and
I unlocked it and poured him into the front seat. He stretched his legs, tipped
back his head, and closed his eyes. I buckled him up and closed the door.

“I guess this means no sex tonight,” I muttered as I
put the key in the ignition and switched it on. From the corner of my eye I
could see Quinn straighten and unfasten his seat belt. “Quinn....”

And then he toppled over, landing with his head in
my lap.

“Fuck a
geezley goddamn!”

His hand was busy on my fly.

“Quinn....”

“Hush.”

“We’re gonna get arrested!”

“No we won’t.” He had my cock out, and his breath
was warm on it. “You’ll keep us safe.”

Okay, maybe he was drunk, but the fact he knew I
wouldn’t let anything happen to him indicated he still had it together.

A car not doing anything but sitting with its engine
running would draw attention. I turned off the ignition just as Quinn’s mouth
closed around me.

We should not be doing this, but God, it felt good!

There was a tap on the driver’s side window, and I
wanted to punch something, mainly whoever was standing there. Quinn was lost in
what he was doing, but I didn’t want to take a chance he’d sit back and show
his face. I put my hand on his neck. He took it as encouragement and continued
bobbing up and down.

Whoever was outside was getting impatient. He rapped
harder on the window. And of course it was a cop.

I sighed and pressed the button to lower the window.
“Yes, Officer?”

“You can’t—Mr. Vincent, is that you?”

Fuck. “Hello, Samuels.” He was one of my sources at
the DCPD.

“Geez, I didn’t realize….”

“You didn’t realize what?”

He looked at his watch. “How late it was. I’d better
be going. Um... I think it might be a good idea for you to go too.”

“I guess so.” Quinn’s movements had slowed, and now
there was a soft snore coming from the direction of my lap.

“Good night, sir.”

“’Night, Samuels.” I waited until he crossed to his
vehicle before pressing the button for the window. It slid shut, and I eased
Quinn back into his seat. “Come on, baby. A little cooperation would be
appreciated.”

“Hmm?” But he was still asleep.

I got his seat belt fastened again and lowered his
seat so he wouldn’t slump sideways and bang his head on the door. Only then did
I do up my fly.

And as I fastened my own seat belt, I started
chuckling. Quinton Mann, wasted on beer. I shook my head, turned the ignition
back on, put the car in gear, and headed home.

After I finished Forever, there was one more book before
the series was done, Complications by the
Number, but I realized I needed something to bring us from February 2003 to
May 2005. If You’re Going Through Hell
Keep Going was supposed to be a single chapter, but as you can see, that
didn’t happen. Mark takes us into the
WBIS, and we get to see the inner workings. We also see him demonstrate why he
was considered the best at what he did. And since Mark and Quinn are no longer
in an adversarial relationship, I started a new series, Mann of My Dreams, the name I’d used when it was available online.

*Is there anything special you’d like us
to know about your book?

I’ve altered the style for this series. Instead of
alternating POVs within the book, each book will be a single POV. Although the
last one is being coy and won’t tell me what it plans. So far it’s incorporated
third person as well as Mark’s POV. We’ll see if Quinn decides to say something
as well ;-)

*What are your hopes for this title?

I hope readers will enjoy where I’m taking Mark and Quinn
and will continue coming along for the ride.About the Author:

Tinnean has been writing since the 3rd
grade, where she was inspired to try her hand at epic poetry. Fortunately, that
epic poem didn't survive the passage of time; however, her love of writing not
only survived but thrived, and in high school she became a member of the
magazine staff, where she contributed a number of stories.

It was with the advent of the family's
second computer – the first intimidated everyone – that her writing took off,
enhanced in part by fanfiction, but mostly by the wonder that is copy and
paste.

While involved in fandom, she was
nominated for both Rerun and Light My Fire Awards. Now she concentrates on her
original characters. She’s been published by Nazca Plains, Dreamspinner, JMS
Books, and has also self-published. Her novel, Two Lips, Indifferent Red received honorable mention in the 2013
Rainbow Awards.

A New Yorker at heart, she resides in SW
Florida with her husband and two computers.

Ernest Hemingway's words reflect Tinnean's
devotion to her craft: Once writing has become your major
vice and greatest pleasure, only death can stop it.

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Meet the Hostess!

Raine O'Tierney is an M/M romance author who loves celebrating other authors, asking probing questions about dachshunds, and generally supporting the creative process! Plus she thinks hats are worth throwing a party over!